A Funeral Toll

Across the world hear peal of mourning bells

For our belovèd queen has last been felled.

Our sex tree! Grief for Vassar’s majesty,

Adored by all the classes ever known,

Her death a never-ending travesty—

Who else could occupy her royal throne?

We mourn her crown, her willow leaves of hair;

Her side unveiled; her trunk, her branches bare.

Her gentle shade provides cover no more

For any passing lover on her floor.

Still good for sex as any other tree:

As long as you don’t care if people see.

Long-reigning monarchs two this week have died,

Yet for thee only, sex tree, have I cried.

 

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